Dear Diary, picture this:
A small slim woman with big black eyes, massive podgy lips, and an annoyingly big bottom struts across her lawns toward a waiting mirror-black helicopter. Her fists are clenched. Her little feet are bare, as is her annoying bottom under her black Bellenciaga cocktail dress. Her dress and her sharp black bob are blown all about by the whirling blades and she finds this exhilarating, especially the powerful wind about her naked nethers. In the distance, behind her, stands her annoyingly big-choppered gardener-stroke-boyfriend. She tosses him a glare and flicks up the back of her skirt so he gets a-- hopefully torturing--flash of bare buttock.
Bullseye! His eyes swell with worry, and his hand raises in a confused farewell.
"Fuck you, Bill," the woman says. But the helicopter drowns it out.
Now, picture this:
One hour later. The same furiously desirable woman is starfished naked on a graphite silk bedspread, writhing in orgasm as she's fed on by eight naked billionaire starlets while their rippling husbands watch in sated, post-coital awe.
Yes Dear Diary, dear Father, dear Bill, dear Whoever-the-fuck-is-reading-this, today I was angry with Bill and took revenge in my own unique way.
Remember, my muscle-bound giant of a gardener and I, Lady Bathsheba Ottoline Lovecome have been having an illicit--if not a little cliched--affair. In my last instalment, my best friend Gabrielle came to stay, then stayed to come, and much excellent fun was had. Eventually.
A few days later, Gabrielle sent me a dildo replica of my apparently loyal gardener's erection. This, remember, is her art, so it's not as odd as it might sound. She has many casts of many excellent penises. So more fun was had. I think I even confessed to you, dear Diary that nothing feels better than being simultaneously licked and fucked by the same man. But then it hit me: how, and when had Gabrielle made a cast of Bill's erect penis? Not just your everyday morning glory either, we're talking Bill at his biggest and hardest, as if someone had been playing with him for some time...
As an aristocrat, I have a rather unique little-black-book. You know that list of numbers everyone has for when they're lonely or needy down below? Well mine is full of invitations mostly, to upmarket sexy soirees that want their reputations made by nearly-royal patronage. I collect the invites for fun because generally they look just awful. And anyway, until recently Bill looked after me rather well down below so I haven't needed to party in that way.
Not today. Today I chose the most exclusive sex party I could find, the kind that sends a helicopter to collect you, and I scrubbed inside and out, deep down clean, ready to be dirty as I liked.
Diary, Bill, It was epic, and I'm going to recount it for you, and then make sure you read it. I understand we're not a couple in the traditional sense, or even exclusive fuck buddies. You're just my gardener for fuck sake. In fact we're doomed to part as soon as Father arranges a marriage for me--the only downside to a life as an entitled billionaire. But still, I didn't expect you to fuck my friend; well, not secretly anyway, not without me. I want you to see how it feels imagining me with someone else, like I'm forced to feel your betrayal every time we use the fucking dildo SHE cast from your monstrously erect penis. What did she do to get you that hard Bill? For me, you only get that veiny when I suck you, and when you're about to come. Or sometimes when I've come on your mouth. Is that what she did? Come on your mouth and suck you? Did you fuck her after? The one thing we deny each other since my father's death threats over getting me pregnant? Where did you come, Bill? In her cunt? Did you like coming in her cunt more than in my mouth? I've never enjoyed cum with anyone before, you know that don't you? Only yours.
So read this. And know I loved every last drop of it.
THE UNICORN AND THE BEAST OF A THOUSAND MOUTHS
The party was in a Bond villain mansion on its own island somewhere. Doesn't matter where. When I arrived, eight beautiful couples were milling about a golden terrace, sipping sunset cocktails and making awkward pre-sex small talk. They were the world's most highly paid models--all female--and their trophy husbands, all of them buff, witty, and--it turned out--very eager to please.
Jaws dropped when I walked onto the terrace. Mouths actually gaped. Any self-consciousness I had about my bubble bum offending these lithe angels fled. In my enforced solitude at Father's estate, it's easy to forget how the press has built me up into something of a unicorn. "The Most Desirable Woman Of All Time" Vogue called me. Little me! And the more invitations I ignore, the more desirable I become it seems. You'd do well to bear that in mind sometimes, Bill. Anyway, you should've seen how these beauties converged on me. I felt like a zookeeper at feeding time.
So many flirty smiles. So many pink cheeks.
The host bowed and scraped and I ignored her, grabbed a glass and drained it, then reached for the tallest, poutiest, cheekboniest girl I could find. I pulled her face down to mine and kissed her hungrily. She tasted as good as she looked, and perhaps she felt the same about me, because she whimpered in my mouth then melted and hummed on my tongue. My hand sought her husband's approval with a huntress will of its own, grabbing the swelling lump in his trousers. He very much approved. In seconds, with a flourish, and without unsuckering from his wife, I had his trousers unfastened and his naked rod bucking in my palm.
The onlookers laughed. Some clapped. All drew closer.
"A room," I said to my glowing host. "Now." Then I strode after her with a beautiful woman in one hand and a beautiful cock in the other. "All of you. Come," I demanded. And not for the last time either.
In a blink and a sashay we were in a bedroom that jutted out from cliffs over the sea. Aside from a floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of the surf, the room was decorated in shades of stormcloud, including a cumulus bed set beneath a mirror--like a silver lining! The monochrome interior of stone and leather and silk seemed purpose-made to make us baubles pop.
Eight couples, that's sixteen people, smooched over me as we explored our possibilities. Other than the one cock I'd unwrapped, we were all still dressed, and the planet's finest fabrics slid over me, hinting at hardnesses and softnesses beneath. Wherever I turned, smiling lips met mine, and glorious perfumes, and hands slid over my arms and back, and, as I filled my grip with firm buttocks and hard fronts and pert breasts, so my admiring crowd's hands returned the favour. I felt like a ball of dough being deliciously kneaded, but also deliciously needed.
Have you ever been adored by a crowd, Bill? I mean tenderly pawed at by sixteen beautiful, highly successful and tasteful people? For their pleasure? Well I can heartily recommend it.
